


one day you’ll wake up in heaven

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Crying, Depression, FOB, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, like. nothing actually happens it’s just brought up i guess, those are implied though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:13:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: He didn’t know how to fix Pete, he only knew how to take him to therapy, take him to a psychiatrist and hope to god that at least they know what they’re doing. He was fighting the war on love for the both of them, and sure, he’s willing to fight that war a thousand times over if it meant he could stay with Pete, but he only wished he didn’t have to.Or, the one where Pete has a meltdown.





	one day you’ll wake up in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> lol sorry I’m so depressing always but this is what my brain spits out so here u go
> 
> oh also. title’s from some Pete poem

Pete had his days, Patrick knew this, and Pete will always have his days. It never hurt any less, though, to see the one person you love more than anyone else destroy themselves.

“Pete?” Patrick called, shutting the door behind him as he walked into the house.

Draping his coat over the stairway railing and kicking his shoes off, he started up the stairs.

“Pete!” he called again, furrowing his eyebrows. It had to be one of two things— either Pete was out, which would be better, or he was here, and ignoring Patrick.

The latter could mean one of two things also; Pete was angry, or Pete was sad.

Neither were good, but he’d much rather have Pete angry with him for some reason or another than have Pete sad, because a sad Pete was heartbreaking and really, Patrick didn’t want to see that today. Or ever, really. It hurt.

Patrick opened their bedroom door, biting his lip, stepping into the empty room. He called Pete’s name one more time.

Nothing.

There was a sinking feeling in his chest that it was one of those days. He stepped into the hallway, pushing open the door to the bathroom but half expecting Pete not to be there. 

“Oh my god, Pete, there you are,” he huffed, the cold tile floor seeping though his socks.

Pete sat on the rim on the bathtub, fully clothed, eyes only just meeting Patrick’s. 

“What are you doing, baby?” Patrick said softly, crouching on the floor next to Pete. “It’s cold in here.” 

He was just testing the waters. He racked his brain to remember if anything he had done could’ve made Pete mad, but he knew there wasn’t anything and besides, he knew what was going on already.

“‘s better,” Pete whispered. “I can feel something.”

That sent alarm signals through Patrick, and he scoured the empty bathtub, the floor, the windowsill for that one little gleam of silver. His eyes skimmed over Pete’s wrists, relieved to see nothing there.

“No razor, right?” he asked gently.

“The sink,” Pete breathed, and only then did Patrick notice the redness around his eyes, the puffiness that revealed that Pete had been crying.

Patrick jumped up, grabbing the razor and wrapping it in toilet paper, then shoving in his hoodie pocket.

“Pete, why didn’t you just call me?” Patrick asked, pulling Pete up. “You know I’d answer...”

Pete didn’t reply, and that’s probably what made Patrick the most nervous. 

“Come downstairs, baby. God, you’re freezing—“

“Shut up, alright?” Pete hissed suddenly, spinning around and holding his hands up to his forehead like it hurt, elbows out and back curled over. It took Patrick a second to process what happened, and then another second for him to realize Pete was crying.

“Pete, Pete I’m sorry, shh, don’t cry,” Patrick said quickly, reaching for Pete’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me,” he choked, spinning and pressing his back against the wall. His eyes were squeezed shut like he was in real pain, and with a grimace Patrick realized it might not be far off. 

Patrick had experienced depression before, sure, but nothing compared to what Pete dealt with on a daily basis and he thought that maybe that was the scariest part—he just didn’t understand. He could never fully understand what Pete was feeling.

“I love you, baby,” Patrick whispered, stepping back to give Pete space. “I do, in case you forgot.”

“You can’t,” Pete sobbed, sinking to the cold tile floor. “You can’t love me.”

It took all of Patrick’s willpower to not lift Pete’s chin up, kiss him and make him understand, so instead he just leaned back against the counter, shoulders rigid as he watched Pete break in front of him.

He didn’t understand why people romanticized crying, romanticized self harm and depression and bipolar disorder because it wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t pretty or cute or lovable or _anything_. It was ugly, inside and out, it was so fucking ugly and Patrick wanted to destroy it, destroy everything about it and tear it out from inside his lover’s eyes, tear it out from inside everyone’s eyes who ever came close to dealing with the demon. 

“You better believe it,” he said softly. 

“I’m crazy, Patrick, I’m fucking insane!“ Pete gasped. “I’m unlovable, can’t you see that? People like me don’t deserve love!” his voice pitched up near the end, like he was about to break down again. 

“Wrong,” said Patrick quietly, kneeling down in front of him. “Tell me why you think this.”

Pete looked up, defiance sparking deep in his watery eyes. “I’ve always known it.” 

“You didn’t know it when you fucking proposed to me,” Patrick whispered. “You didn’t know it when we made love for the first time, or all the times after that. Please, Pete, listen to me, I love you. I love you so, so much.”

Something snapped inside Pete’s eyes. His collapsed against the bathroom wall like something was cut, and the tears started up again, spilling over his cheeks and landing with a splat on the tile floor.

“I know,” he sobbed, “I know, I’m sorry, I know.”

“Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, baby. You’re okay. I love you.” Patrick whispered, pulling Pete in for a tight hug that was less of a hug and more of a tether, anchoring Pete to Patrick, as if silently saying ‘I’ll never leave, you don’t ever leave’. 

Patrick could see Pete’s hand, shaking, yes, but also touching his wedding band like a sort of lifeline, or reminder, that he was Patrick’s. Patrick touched his own, instinctively. 

“It hurts, ‘trick,” Pete breathed, trembling against Patrick. “It hurts so bad.”

“What hurts, baby?”

“You—the feeling that you don’t love me. Thinking you _can’t_ love me.”

Patrick pulled them up, guiding Pete into the dark hallway, flicking the light on and ushering him down the stairs with soft whispers. 

When they were comfortably on the couch, lights on and windows drawn, cozy and warm and safe, Patrick turned. He cupped Pete’s face with his palms, wiped the tears off both of Pete’s cheeks with his thumbs, and pressed his lips gently against his. 

It took a second for Pete to kiss back, and Patrick could see the love and fear fighting behind his eyes. He could see the hurt, and the anger at depression or whatever this was inside his head, making him like this. It was ugly, Patrick thought again. It was so ugly, it wasn’t cute or endearing, it was just ugly. 

But eventually Pete kissed back, and Patrick could taste the salty tears, taste the sadness that resonated deep inside Pete. 

They pulled back, and when Patrick opened his eyes, he noticed that Pete’s were cast downwards.

“I have an idea,” he said softly, waiting for Pete to look up. “I have an idea.” he repeated.

“Yeah?”

“If you ever feel like I don’t love you, call me first, okay? Please, call me, and I’ll make it better. You can be angry, you can scream at me and I’ll take it. Just call me first.”

Pete wiped his cheeks with his shirt sleeve hastily, nodding. “I will,” he whispered. “Promise.”

“One more thing, and we can be done,” Patrick continued gently, “what were you gonna do with that razor? Why’d you have it, this time?”

Pete bit his lip, nesting his head further into the cradle of Patrick’s neck. “Wanted to feel something,” he explained softly. “Wanted to control what I felt. Kind of a last-ditch, last chance kind of thing.”

Patrick nodded. “Alright,” he whispered, relieved that it was only a near-relapse, nothing worse. “Just call me first, okay? I don’t care if you think I don’t love you. Just call me.”

Pete nodded, intertwining his own fingers with Patrick’s, watching the 2-star-R tattoo disappear behind Patrick’s pale hand. Patrick’s Pete’s Neverland, Pete decided. He always will be.

—

After Pete had gone to sleep, Patrick properly got rid of the razor, quickly and cleanly like he’s done so many times before. The whole time he thought about how satisfying it would be if mental illness was a physical form, and he could put a bullet through its face for doing this to so many people. 

It wasn’t fair, none of this was fucking fair and he knew, he knew the goddamn saying: “life isn’t fair”. But this was different, this was a whole new level of unfair, because why is it that one person can be happy, satisfied with the life they’re living but the next guy over wants to die? And it made him mad, angry that Pete had to deal with this. 

The kitchen was dark, the moonlight shining through the window and glossing over the countertop sort of like the reflections on a lake. 

Patrick didn’t notice he was crying until he caught his reflection in the refrigerator, but when he did come to himself it hurt, and he was scared because he really, really could’ve lost Pete today if he had gone far enough, and he could lose Pete soon if this goes on like it has. And that realization burned.

He braced himself on the counter, standing in the dark at ten pm, alone and sobbing silently because he couldn’t wake the person sleeping upstairs. He had to be quiet, he had to be the strong one, he had to be steady. 

He waited for it to pass and when it did he straightened up, wiped his face with his hoodie sleeve, and shut his eyes tightly, cursing every god he’s ever heard of that this life was as unfair as it was.

—

Patrick couldn’t sleep. Unsurprisingly. So he sat up in their bed against the cushiony headboard, watching Pete sleep instead, his eyelids fluttering with each breath, his face peaceful for once in his life.

Pete was beautiful, he thought sadly, too beautiful for the monsters that control him, the demons that dance inside that pretty head. Another tear snaked down Patrick’s cheek but he didn’t wipe it away.

Patrick had read somewhere that the California sunset was only so bright and beautiful because of smog and pollution, fifty years’ worth or more of the destruction of Earth’s atmosphere above the pacific ocean. It’s only beautiful because it’s broken.

But sometimes the most beautiful things are broken, Patrick thought bitterly, blinking the tears away so he could catch one more glance at Pete.

Pete was beautiful, but the thing inside him was not, and it was getting harder and harder for Pete himself to distinguish what was left of him and what was the monster that lived inside, and to Patrick, that might be the scariest part. 

There was so much they didn’t know, so much that only Pete knew but didn’t know how to tell Patrick, so much gray area. Patrick hated it.

He didn’t know how to fix Pete, he only knew how to take him to therapy, take him to a psychiatrist and hope to god that at least they know what they’re doing. He was fighting the war on love for the both of them, and sure, he’s willing to fight that war a thousand times over if it meant he could stay with Pete, but he only wished he didn’t have to. 

“I wish I could fix you,” Patrick whispered, words hardly over a breath. He knew Pete couldn’t hear him anyways.

“I wish you could always know how much I love you, wish you didn’t have to feel the darkness as much as you do.” he swallowed. “You’re a fighter, though. I’ll help you through it.”

Pete stirred but he didn’t wake up. 

“One day we’ll make it. One day everything will be okay again.” his breath shook. “One day we’ll wake up in heaven.”

Patrick bit his lip, the lump in his throat blocking the words a little bit. He shut his eyes tight then opened them, locking them on Pete’s face. He was beautiful. 

“I love you, so much more than you could ever know.” he breathed. “You’re my fucking, like, beacon of light, guiding me home. You scared me with that razor, baby. It’s okay if you relapse, it’s okay, I love you always, but don’t go too far.” he bit his lip hard, trying like hell to block the image out of his mind.

It didn’t work. The more he tried not to think about it, the more he did and it spiraled and spiraled until Patrick was really crying now. 

It’s Pete, laying limp in his car, in a Best Buy parking lot, Patrick pounding on his windows and screaming like hell but he just can’t get to Pete. 

It’s Pete, sobbing in a blood-red bathtub as the life drains out of him through the slits in his wrist. 

It’s Pete, being dropped into a grave, his face pale and lifeless as Patrick catches the last glimpse of him he will ever see.

It’s Pete, dead.

It’s a world that Patrick has to live in without his best friend, his lover, his favorite person. It’s a world approaching the monochrome gray that Pete has to live in now. 

“Patrick?” Pete’s soft voice pulls him back to reality and he curses and wiped his face furiously.

“Sorry, sorry,” he breathes shakily, “go back to bed. I’m fine.”

“Is it my fault?”

Patrick only shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“Why’re you crying?” Pete asks finally, nervously, nesting himself in the curve of Patrick’s side, providing security and warmth. 

But Patrick looks at Pete and all he can see is the hidden demon inside and he’s guilty, because Pete is so much more than that.

“Stop, stop crying,” Pete whispers, reaching his hand up to brush the hair out of Patrick’s face.

He is warm, his hands are warm and soft and real and alive. Patrick lets out another broken sob. 

“Promise me, baby,” he chokes finally, holding Pete’s hand tightly. “Promise me you won’t do it, promise me you’ll stay with me, here.”

Pete nodded, but shame flashed behind his eyes. “It is my fault.” 

“Stop saying that.” Patrick whispered, voice strained. “Do you promise me?”

“I promise,” Pete says quietly, then pulls Patrick in for a kiss but it’s not like normal, it isn’t full of love and softness and warmth it’s full of gray, it’s full of the pain they’ve both felt, it’s the familiar burn of heartbreak, it’s the salty taste of tears.

Sure, Patrick’s scared, and sure, Pete’s afraid of himself but they both feel the flame, the little spark of hope that it’ll all turn out okay one day.

One day you’ll wake up in heaven. 

Thrown all the eleven-elevens, every shooting star, every wishing penny on the hope that one day it will finally be alright. 

“Keep fighting,” Patrick whispers when they pull back, eyes flickering up to Pete’s. “Keep fighting, baby, I’ll fight with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> see! a happy ending. they’re happy, damnit
> 
> thank u for reading! pls leave a comment/kudos bc those keep me alive hahahah


End file.
